


Things Happen

by djcamidog



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Background Relationships, Background characters - Freeform, Depression, F/F, Fluff, General shenaningans, Lounge Singer AU, Modern AU, Sass and Sarcasm, Slow Burn, im really invested in this okay, listen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 18:43:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7768918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djcamidog/pseuds/djcamidog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amélie is a lounge singer who's really just trying her best. After scaring her recent pianist away, she's left with nothing to do. Her informal vacation is cut short when her boss finds her a new pianist, who just happens to be a spunky, spiky haired pest with no sense of fashion, whom she had met earlier in the day.</p><p>Life is quite unfair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Happen

“You- You _ungrateful, rude, arrogant bitch!”_ The insult rang out in the night air, just loud enough to be heard over the din of cars shooting past, of music and laughter leaking out of the lounge behind the woman who stood with arms crossed. Her hair was black-- so black it had a blue tint to it-- and it cascaded down to her waist, slightly curled. The most apathetic expression graced her face. She wore a dark purple dress that clung to her body, stopping just above her knees, and black heels that made her even taller than she already was. Ochre eyes, blank with indifference, saw through the man that was screaming at her.

For as much as he screamed, he would’ve been better off screaming at a wall. Amélie Lacroix was not paying attention. As the insults continued, Amélie found herself idly wondering-- should she have dinner here, at the the bar, or should she wait until she was in the safety and comfort of her home, dressed in warm pajamas, watching a movie? Of course, cooking meant exuding effort, and after the earful this impetuous man was giving her, she wasn’t sure if she was up to that. She did her best to suppress a smile as a thought occurred to her-- she _could_ always order a pizza, stay up late, and then sleep in. But then again, that meant spending money. There was simply no winning.

“Are you- Are you even _listening_ to me?!” The man shrieked, his face red with anger, his breaths rapid and frenzied. He was middle-aged, with graying hair, a round face, and watery, gray eyes. Round and fleshy, he almost _looked_ like he should’ve been sitting behind a desk, taking calls and making appointments for someone who was infinitely more influential than him. In the moonlight, he even looked sickly, with a pallor that made Amélie hope he would drop dead within a few minutes. Perhaps, if she was lucky, he’d scream himself into suffocation, not that that was even possible. Simply put, Amélie hated him. He was fickle, whiny, he dressed _terribly_ and he acted like he knew more than her. It disgusted her. Clearly, he had never learned that age does _not_ always denote experience. Not to be forgotten, he made _far_ too many blunders when it was time to perform. He had lost her respect the moment he opened his mouth, which was, in her opinion, a bit too wide for someone like him. The first time he made a comment about her appearance, it took every ounce of discipline, self-control, and Reinhardt clamping an arm on her shoulder to not stab him with her heels.

“ _Non._ Honestly, every time you open your mouth, every inch of my being longs for death.” Amélie replied calmly, focusing on him. A lopsided grin wormed its way onto her face as her adversary made a tinny noise-- some sort of god awful scream that could’ve been mistaken for a raptor shriek. “Are you finished monologuing? I have better things to do than listen to you prattle on.” Another enraged noise, and Amélie was tempted to whirl around and walk back into the bar, maybe add in a little flourish for good measure. Truly, she hated the man. He was gross.

“I hope you’re ruined because of this!” The man hissed abruptly, his eyes cold with the anger only an old man who was upset with the entire world could have. Amélie couldn’t help herself. She laughed, a short, crisp _ha!_ that caught the man off guard, a look of shock and indignance spoiling his already disgusting face. _Truly, as if this would ruin me._

“ _Au revoir,”_ Amélie called out, as he spun around and stormed off. Once he was gone, Amélie sighed in relief. _Thank God he’s gone,_ she thought, as she turned around and walked back into the bar. Upon entering, she was bathed in warmth, the sound of laughter, a cloud of relaxation. A hint of a smile appeared on her face as she made her way to the bar and sat down, propping her elbow on the counter and resting her chin in her hand. As the familiar bartender swaggered his way towards her, Amélie surveyed the lounge.

 _The Watch_ was a second home to her, almost more welcoming than her actual house a few blocks away on 12th avenue. Whereas her house was small, had minimalist furnishing and sleek appliances, _The Watch_ was almost a throwback to another time. Doubling as a high-end restaurant, the lounge had dim lighting, creating an almost... romantic mood. One section of the large venue was the restaurant and bar, while a raised platform acted as the invisible barrier between ‘eat here’ and ‘come to relax and drink.’ The opposite side of the restaurant acted as a more casual cafe, serving anything from alcohol to gourmet coffee, with the caveat of the customers having to get up and walk to get their drinks. At first, it wasn’t an entirely welcome suggestion-- it disrupted the mood-- but at the request of their bartender, they soon saw why he did it. On more than one occasion, someone would have a bit too much to drink, and when they stumbled and tripped over themselves to get to the bar, they were refused another drink.  

“Hey there, darlin’.” Amélie was pulled out of her reverie by the southern drawl that could only belong to one man-- Jesse McCree. “Haven’t I seen you before?” He asked, a smirk on his face. She turned her head to look at him, noting his cowboy hat and his-- she shuddered internally-- flannel and jeans combo. If she had to guess-- and she was usually right-- then this cowboy cosplayer was wearing cowboy boots.

“Perhaps,” Amélie replied coolly, examining her fingernails. She gestured to the raised pedestal with her other hand. “I only perform here every night, with a rather disgusting man on the piano.” As she said that, she couldn’t help but shoot a deadly glare at the pedestal she sang on. Three feet away, on the floor, was a rather old, somewhat beat-up piano. While the lack of a pianist meant Amélie would effectively be out of work until a placement could be found, it was worth it if it meant she didn’t have to see that annoying, pretentious, impetuous, _useless-_

“I take it ya made that pianist run off?” McCree asked, chuckling, as he pulled a glass out from under the counter and set it on the table. “Ya know, Amélie, ya can’t keep runnin’ the pianists outta here. I understand that you don’t like ‘em, but now you’re outta work too. I take it you want the usual?” When she nodded, he set about mixing her favorite drink-- a Mudslide-- as Amélie pursed her lips and then puffed out her cheeks. Being out of work wasn’t exactly a bad thing-- she was very smart about her money and had enough in her savings to live comfortably for a while-- it just meant she couldn’t do what she enjoyed. And by all accounts, Amélie _loved_ singing. It was something she had always loved, a hobby she had started when she was young. During her middle school years, after puberty, it became apparent that she really did have quite the singing voice. Not shocking any of her peers, she began vocal lessons, and became actively involved in the choir, and then the musical, where she held the spot of female lead all through high school and college. _To say I’m a good actress is an understatement,_ Amélie thought, as McCree set her drink in front of her. _I dealt with that annoying, miserable, incompetent-_

“I guess you need the break, don’tcha?” McCree interrupted, his trademark smirk on his face once again as he leaned on the counter. Amélie snorted, lifting the drink to sip on it. She sighed when she set it down again, enjoying the taste. She dearly loved coffee, and refused to start her day without-- god forbid anybody deal with her if she didn’t have her coffee-- and it was no surprise that she loved coffee liqueur. “Now now, you shoot me another one of them dagger glares and you might just kill me on the spot, Amélie.”

“And so it should be, McCree,” Amélie retorted, wrapping her hands around the glass. “Don’t you know cowboy culture is dead, _chéri_? There is no reason to continue dressing like you walked out of a Western movie set. Are you wearing cowboy boots? If we were really friends like you think we are, you wouldn’t wear cowboy boots.” She smirked as McCree huffed, tipping his hat so it covered his eyes.

“Well, howdy, pardner,” he drawled, in an almost stereotypical Western accent. “What say me an’ you go herd some cattle?” McCree lifted his hat and shot a malicious smirk at Amélie, who could only sigh heavily in response.

“I understand that in a past life, I had to have killed a great many people. But I don’t understand what I could’ve done to warrant a cowboy cosplaying man in my life.”

“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all night!” The bartender joked, as Amélie finished her drink. He was fortunate enough to receive a one fingered salute as the dark haired singer stood up and stretched. McCree busied himself with rinsing out Amélie’s glass and cleaning, his eyes fixed on the rag and glass in his hands as if he were studying for an exam. Amélie was a great singer, but she was also incredibly attractive, and McCree had seen many a single man sitting at small tables, drinks in their hands, staring lustfully at Amélie as she sang. Personally, he thought she was a little too edgy for him, and while he appreciated her aesthetic, he thought of Amélie as a close friend and nothing more. A close friend that was very attractive. Who was also very moody and intimidating. “You headin’ out for the night?”

“I am, yes,” Amélie responded, relaxing from her stretch. “Tomorrow, I imagine Reinhardt will have an earful for me. I’d like to get a decent night of sleep under me before I’m nagged to hell and back.” McCree chuckled knowingly, having weathered the storm that was Reinhardt a few times. She spun around on her heels and walked away, her heels clicking on the hard floor, as McCree called out a goodbye. Amélie waved nonchalantly in response before exiting the restaurant. Pulling her phone out from the only place she could store such a thing-- pressed against her chest, held up by her bra-- she called a cab. As if all of the night’s events abruptly dropped on her, she was suddenly exhausted. _All I want to do is sleep,_ Amélie thought, as she waited for a car to pick her up. When it arrived, she paid no mind to the driver, and slipped into the cab silently. _I want to sleep and not wake up._

 

* * *

 

Amélie woke up with a groan. It was Saturday, she generally worked from 4PM to 12AM on weeknights, but she still found herself waking up at the ungodly hour of 7AM. Perhaps it was a curse from a previous life. Whatever it was, it definitely didn’t allow her to sleep in. _Must be nice to wake up to an alarm for once,_ Amélie thought, as she sat up wearily and rubbed her eyes. Her alarm was set for 9AM, but she had no idea why she had set it in the first place. The last time she had slept in that late was when she was a freshman in college. Raising her arms and stretching, she cast a tired glance around her room. When she had first moved in, she had foolishly chosen the room that the sun just _happened_ to shine into in the morning. Even if she could sleep in, she was quite positive the sun would tear her out of whatever crappy sleep she was in, then rudely set her on her way.

It was a lot easier to just wake up when the sun was just rising. At least then her room was covered in a soft, cool glow, and the birds were preparing to chatter their heads off. While many people seemed to enjoy waking up to the din caused by several thousand birds, in Amélie’s opinion, she preferred waking up when things were still quiet. Perhaps several thousand birds was an overstatement, but there _was_ a large maple tree in her front yard, and it just _happened_ to be closest to the bedroom she claimed.

She was foolish, definitely. If she could choose again, she’d definitely choose the bedroom downstairs. At least then, she could put up heavy curtains and block out the sun. _My own little batcave._ Yawning, Amélie threw back her covers and swung her legs over the side of her bed. Ignoring that she was definitely standing on her dress from last night, Amélie stood up and stretched again. Her room was rather small, but it felt spacious because of a lack of furniture. Ever the minimalist, Amélie’s bedroom consisted of a full-sized bed tucked in the back corner, a small nightstand next to it with a lamp sitting on it. Directly under a window was her small desk, which was covered in papers. Doodles, receipts, letters, and bills were strewn across the desk. _Ouch. I’m gonna have to sort that here soon,_ Amélie thought, rubbing her nose. Very aware of the fact that stepping on a cold floor in the morning was the equivalent of dipping one’s feet in liquid nitrogen, Amélie had even opted to lay down a large rug in her room. Across from her bed was the door that led out to the small living room. When she was younger, she had strategically placed her bed in that spot so she could shuffle into her room, kick off her shoes, roll into bed, and promptly go to sleep.

That happened quite a bit, especially nowadays. To her left was her closet, which was of a decent size. Always fashionable, Amélie absolutely _refused_ to outside without looking her best or at least close to being her best. Only on rare days when she was ready to punch a child would she allow herself to go out in sweatpants. But those days were incredibly rare days. Fortunately, today was _not_ one of those days. Anchoring her hands behind her, in the small of her back, Amélie twisted, grunting as her back cracked. When she was younger, her mother used to nag the hell out of her for it. Admittedly, Amélie continued doing it, if only out of spite. It was a small victory when her mother would purse her lips and say nothing.

But it was a victory nonetheless. Amélie shuffled out of her room, yawning again, accidentally kicking a sock out of her room as she went. _... To hell with it,_ she thought blearily, wincing when her bare feet touched the cold floor of the hallway. It was cold as hell, but it helped to jar her out of her sleep, even if it made her pick up her feet and gingerly step into her kitchen, bypassing her living room altogether. Flipping the kitchen light on, Amélie squinted at the coffee maker. After getting home last night, she had prepared a pot of coffee and auto-programmed it to start at 645AM. Sometimes, the damned thing was finicky, and wouldn’t start making coffee until she manually started it. Fortunately, it was in a good enough mood to greet her with a pot of dark coffee. _Thank god, or I think I would’ve punted a small child across a football field._ In her own form of autopilot, Amélie set about pulling a large mug from a cupboard, then shuffling over to the refrigerator. She didn’t use milk or sugar, but rather, flavored creamer. That was all she put in her coffee-- that was all she needed, really. It just meant that when she ran out of said creamer, she was _incredibly_ grumpy the rest of the day. As she poured a generous amount of creamer into her coffee, she glanced up at a clock that hung from the wall over the kitchen sink. _7:15, huh... Guess I’ll watch the news, now._

Sighing, coffee in hand, Amélie padded back into her living room and sat down on the couch. It was almost as cold as the floor. _I feel like I just dumped my ass in liquid nitrogen, damn._ Maybe it was her fault for only sleeping in a camisole and bikini underwear, but honestly, it got too hot to comfortably sleep otherwise. Reaching forward and scooping up the TV remote, she pressed the power button, squinting as the TV lit up the room. The living room was almost as sparsely furnished as her bedroom. In the corner of the living room, her TV rested on an entertainment system. She didn’t have much in the way of electronics, but she did have an old PS3 that she had accidentally kept after a breakup with her ex. He never bothered to ask for it back, and she had taken to playing _Kingdom Hearts 2_ when she was extremely bored. It made for a good Netflix catalyst, too. There was a sound system that framed her TV, installed by McCree-- she had to treat him to dinner for that, and she quickly learned he could eat as much as a weightlifter-- and a myriad of movies stacked next to her TV. Across from the TV was a low table that wasn’t exactly neat and orderly, but not exactly messy. Amélie knew where everything on the table was, and that was what counted. There were many books haphazardly strewn across the table-- ones she had finished, given up on because it became a sappy romance novel, or had just started-- complete with a few empty water bottles. _Yikes. I should clean up._ Behind the table was a couch, which was generally not used. Amélie preferred to sit in front of the couch, her legs underneath the table. The loveseat she was seated on was directly across from the TV, in perfect position to lay down and watch documentaries, focusing on nothing else.

 _“Last night, a man was found dead on the South block of 38th Avenue...”_ Amélie perked up at the broadcast, her eyes following the banner that rolled across the bottom of the screen. Indeed, a man had been shot in the chest twice near a gas station on the opposite side of town. She glanced down at her near empty cup, an odd feeling settling in her heart. There was so much happening on the news that just made her immeasurably tired. Whether it was controversy over gendered bathrooms, or another murder, or policies that were simply daft and made no sense...

“ _That’s right, Erin. This morning, at 4AM, local firemen responded to a call. Arriving at the scene, they found a house on fire, where they battled the flames until 630AM. Arson is the suspected cause,”_ A male news anchor was saying. “ _Police have not revealed any names, but say that a suspect has been-”_ The TV shut off abruptly as Amélie stood, clicking it off, then tossed the remote onto the couch. Crossing the invisible boundary that separated her kitchen and living room, Amélie set her cup in the sink with a _clink_ before walking back to her room.

She couldn’t watch the news for very long anymore.

 

* * *

 

An hour later, Amélie was dressed and ready to venture outside. The sun was shining brilliantly, but in her opinion, it could fuck right off. The singer much preferred overcast, almost chilly days. There was just something so perfect about a crisp breeze flowing through her hair that was almost as refreshing as collapsing into her bed after a long day at work. Almost. But today was a sunny, warm day, with a gentle breeze. It was definitely shorts and tank-top weather. Yet it didn’t stop Amélie from wearing black leggings, a purple camisole under a black pea coat, topped off with black flats. _Everything is black, his pills, his hands, his jeans--_

Truthfully, it could be thirty-two degrees celsius outside, and Amélie would _still_ wear all black. It was a lifestyle choice, if she was honest. Sometimes it took a lot of commitment, but it was worth it in the end. There was a certain price she had to pay for beauty. Even if it meant she had to bake for it.

Amélie stepped out of her house, closing the door behind her. A gentle twist reaffirmed that the door was locked-- while she lived in a nice neighborhood, she didn’t want to risk it-- before stepping onto the sidewalk. With her purse on her shoulder and her car keys in hand, she yawned and pulled her hair over her shoulder. In most cases, she’d wear her hair in a high ponytail, but today she was feeling particularly lazy-- _probably because the news was depressing today, as always_ \-- and she instead opted to wear her hair down. _Or maybe I’m just lazy._ Things could go either way. Somedays, she had the motivation of a honey badger, and other days, she could barely get out of bed.

Most days, she reflected, were some mix of the two. As she approached the tiny garage that sat next to her house, Amélie couldn’t help but cast a glance at her home. It was small, definitely, with only one floor. There were two bedrooms and one bathroom, a living room, a kitchen, and a basement that had been finished before she moved in. But it was homey, comfortable, and even when she worried that a tornado might carry it into the sky, it was far better than any other option. Besides, it was _hers._ That meant she could put up Halloween decorations without pissing off a roommate. Breaking herself out of her thoughts, Amélie bent over in front of the garage and grabbed the small latch at the base of the door. _One of these days, I’m going to get an automatic garage door. Until then-_ With a grunt, she stood and pushed the garage door up, revealing her car.

“ _Bonjour,_ Mira,” Amélie said, walking into the dark garage. She unlocked the car and slipped inside, sighing as she dropped her keys in the cupholder and set her purse in the passenger seat. Pressing her foot to the brake pedal, she pushed the start button and closed her eyes as the car stirred to life. It was such a soothing noise-- nothing was quite as relaxing as shooting down the highway at speeds that were most _definitely_ legal. Before she could go for a nice drive, however, she had several things to do. As she opened her eyes and pulled her car out of the garage, she mentally steeled herself for the first task. This one was arguably the worst-- Reinhardt, the owner of _The Watch,_ had several choice words for her. That was made abundantly clear in a rather concise text she had gotten when she was in the middle of toweling her hair after a shower. _Really screwed the pooch on this one,_ Amélie thought, climbing out of her car and shutting the garage door. _I’d look way cooler if I didn’t have to get out and shut the damn door, but that... means money._ A quick glance in the rearview mirror showed Amélie that she was still looking quite flawless, as to be expected. It was 830AM, and she was ready to be given the ‘disappointed grandpa’ treatment from Reinhardt. Grimacing, she pulled out of the driveway.

_Dammit._

 

* * *

 

Reinhardt was a kind man, truly. He was the grandfather of the whole team at _The Watch,_ and his advice, while hidden under an outlandish story, was genuine and kind. Amélie thought of him like the grandfather she had never known, and it wasn’t uncommon for her to call him “Grandpa,” when they were in the same room. Unfortunately, that meant that when he was upset or disapproving, everyone felt it tenfold. There was just... something about having a person one cared about be disappointed. When Reinhardt would scold Amélie, it made her feel like a child again, when she would be scolded by her father for punching yet another boy in the face.

In her defense, more often than not, the boy deserved it. She could only name four times when she had deliberately punched another child in the face. But she was a child at the time, too, which somehow made it better. _If I punched a kid now,_ Amélie thought, as she pulled into the parking lot of a local music store, _I’d get sent to jail, and they probably deserved it. I’d do it, too. Kids are bitches._ The disrespect she had seen some kids show their parents made her wince. If _she_ had ever talked like that to her parents, she was very certain she wouldn’t exist anymore. A yawn slipped through her lips as she turned off her car, grabbed her purse, and pushed the door open. _Tracer Beats_ was a rather popular little music store. While it didn’t specialize in selling instruments like _Tranquil Tunes_ did, it instead focused more on sound systems, turn tables, and various other goods. Amélie liked to think of _Tracer Beats_ as her comfort home, her second home away from home. It was large enough to be cleanly separated into different sections, with each wall of the store being dedicated to some form of musical equipment. The east wall was covered in records, CDs, cassette tapes, and even music boxes. The north wall had various DJ equipment-- which she knew absolutely nothing about. To the west was the “Sound Wall,” a section of the store that was all sound systems, and nothing more. The south wall, where the entrance was, displayed various tools such as rosin, reeds, and other goods. In the center of the store was a counter in the shape of a circle, where the cashier generally stayed. A tiny door allowed the cashier to slip out amongst the customers if any questions were raised. Admittedly, she had spent many hours in the store, picking through CDs, hunting for records to send to her mother, or looking through posters. She knew the staff well-- well, the day staff, anyways. They were all calm individuals, who enjoyed finer music. It wasn’t uncommon to walk into the store during the day and hear classical music weaving its way around the store, slipping around the stereos, slinking into the back room. She absolutely loved the calm aura in the store.

Today, however, was an entirely different story. Amélie should’ve known something was wrong when she approached the door and saw a slim, spiky-haired individual standing behind the checkout counter and bouncing. When she pulled open the door, bell chimes announced her arrival, and it took every bit of strength she had to step inside. _Everytime We Touch_ by Cascada was blasting over the speakers-- surround sound speakers, of course-- and the cashier was happily dancing behind the counter. The cashier looked up when the bells rang, and flashed an easy smile at Amélie before turning down the music.

“Heya!” The cashier called out, neatly hopping over the counter and landing in front. The nametag on their shirt read _Lena Oxton._ “Welcome to the store! Call me Tracer!” She put her hands on her hips, striking a little pose, and Amélie found herself praying to whatever being was in the heavens above. _Save me now._

“Do not-” A voice shouted from somewhere in the back of the store. A loud crash interrupted the voice, followed with a few mumbled curses. “Do _not_ call her Tracer! We’re working on a mascot!” The disembodied voice came into view, belonging to a young man with dark skin and dreadlocks pulled into a ponytail. In his arms, he carried several boxes. He passed between the two women, shooting Lena a look.

“Aww, Lúcio! Come on, I make a _great_ mascot!” Lena whined, crossing her arms. Lúcio snorted, disappearing behind an aisle of CDs. “Aaaaanyways. Welcome to the store! Can I help you find anything?” Lena had a cockney accent, but Amélie’s mind was on something entirely different. She said nothing, having just noticed what Lena’s outfit consisted of. The songstress prided herself on having an excellent sense of fashion, and one of her biggest pet peeves was when she saw an outfit that made absolutely _no sense._ But _‘no sense’_ didn’t even begin to justify what she saw. Lena Oxton wore a gray form fitting short sleeved shirt, which probably had the store’s logo on the back. This, so far, was acceptable, but Amélie found it almost impossible to look at her pants, which were just bright orange leggings. _Oh, mon dieu..._ The biggest offense, Amélie noticed, was that Lena was wearing bright orange crocs.

 _Good God, I change my mind. I hate everything about this store._ She could feel the bile rise in her throat. It was a primordial disgust. How could her crocs match her leggings? Why was she even wearing crocs? What god looked down on Lena Oxton and just decided to let her walk out in public like that? Was she aware that she could direct traffic in just that outfit alone? Did she know she wouldn’t have to wear any special gear when she went out hunting, because any hunter would see her from a mile away?

“Er... Are you okay? You look like you’re going to throw up...” Lena stepped away from Amélie, raising her hands, a concerned look on her face. She would be pretty, truly, if it wasn’t for the fact that her fashion sense was equivalent to a nine year old child that didn’t know left from right. Lena had a slim enough body, and delicate features, but also _completely_ ridiculously spiked hair-- really, how could hair even do that? _Must be some super glue hair gel._ Why wasn’t she out of the spiky hair phase of her life in the first place? “You sure you don’t need any help? I can call-”

“I don’t need help from a traffic cone,” Amélie replied, her voice acerbic. She watched Lena’s mouth drop open into a tiny, indignant, _O,_ and then turned to her left, stalking over to the corner of the store. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lena huff, then turn around and hop back over the edge of the counter and resume her position as cashier. Any good mood that Amélie had had instantly dissolved into two feelings: pure disgust and irritation. How could anybody leave their house dressed like that? Who told her that was a good idea? Who let her leave her bedroom like that? The answer was simple. She had no friends. _True_ friends didn’t let their friends leave their house looking like a clown. Amélie pursed her lips as she examined a wall of bluetooth speakers. She _did_ like the store, honestly. But whoever this new cashier was... seriously needed help in the fashion department. Her only goal today was to pick up a new speaker-- the volume rockers on her old one weren’t responsive anymore, and the speaker jumped from barely audible to screaming like a jet on a whim. Amélie picked up a speaker, examining its information plaque on the counter. _This looks like a giant dildo. Who let this design get out into the public._ She set it down, moving on to the next one, which was a tiny cube that boasted incredibly high volumes and happened to look like a child could choke on it. _Oh look, I can play blocks with it if I buy four._ Amélie crossed her arms as she examined it. It _was_ fairly small, but she didn’t need anything that would rupture her eardrums.

“Heya, love! Whatcha lookin’ at?” A voice asked, and Amélie glanced up at the ceiling, clenching her hands on her arms. She hadn’t even realized that the spiky-haired cashier had approached her from the right side, and was now leaning over, intently examining the same plaque Amélie was looking at.

“An annoyance,” Amélie hissed, venom in her voice. _God, please get this fashion disaster away from me. What sin have I committed in a past life that warranted to this? Did I shoot a child? Shoot somebody important?_

“Ah, yeah. That’ll getcha. Bluetooth speakers can be bloody annoying. Any parameters you’re looking for in general, or are you just trying to intimidate all the speakers into choosing one of their own to sacrifice?” Lena asked innocently, straightening and spinning around Amélie. She stopped behind Amélie’s left shoulder, peering over it. “I don’t think it’s workin’, love. Might wanna glower a little more.” Amélie looked over her shoulder, fixing her glare on Lena, who only raised her hands and gave her a sheepish look. “I’m just saying. You probably want speakers with nice highs and nice lows, right? You don’t want a tinny sound or anything. You gotta play your old people music and feel like you’re sitting in the theater, right?” Lena turned around, putting her hands behind her head. It was for the better-- she missed Amélie trying to yank the cube speaker out of the wall and throw it at her, only to give up and follow Lena, hands in her jacket pockets. “Then you should come look at these speakers. They cost a little more, but they sound great, and the battery lasts a lot longer. Plus, you can drop ‘em in a pool and they won’t break.” The brunette stopped and turned to face Amélie, gesturing to a row of speakers that were rectangular in nature. Amélie had said nothing, and was staring at Lena with a blank expression. Underneath the calm mask, however, Amélie was torn between interrogating Lena-- seriously, who let her out like that? and asking serious questions about the speakers. The decision was made for her, because Lena put her hands on her hips again and did her best to scowl at Amélie. It was about as intimidating as a kitten trying to scare its own father. “Listen, is there something you’d like to ask me? ‘Cos you keep starin’ at me like I’m some sorta bug. Got somethin’ to say, love?” Lena demanding. Amélie sighed, pulling her hand out of her coat pocket, and gestured to Lena’s shoes.

“What are those?” Amélie asked bluntly. Sugarcoating had never been her strong suit, and she had learned at a young age that nothing could beat sarcasm and blunt words. There was simply no way to get past this, either. She could forgive the traffic cone pants and shirt, but crocs? Unforgivable.

“Whattaya mean, ‘what are those?’” Lena squeaked, looking down at her shoes and turning her feet to examine then. “They’re crocs! And they’re cute ‘n comfortable!” As if to prove her point, Lena turned and kicked her foot up, resting it on the counter, and gestured to her orange crocs. Amélie scoffed.

“‘Cute’ does not belong in the same sentence as ‘crocs,’ _chérie._ ” Amélie pointed a long finger at the holed shoe. “They look like you should be out slogging away in a mud pit. Is that what you do after this job?” Amélie rolled her eyes, brushing her hair out of her face as Lena scowled at her, lowering her leg and crossing her arms. She had to look up at Amélie-- while Lena may have been leggy, she was still on the short side. _Good god, do your legs go all the way up?_

“Are you gonna buy somethin’, or did you just come here to insult me?” As she spoke, Amélie noticed that the cashier had a faint dusting of freckles across her cheeks and nose. _You could be pretty, but honestly, you seem like the type that would go out in socks and sandals. That’s a capital offense._

“I originally came to buy a speaker, but then I saw you and a part of my soul withered at the sight of your atrocious outfit. Crocs, really. They’re toxic.” Amélie replied, shrugging. Instinctively, she mirrored Lena’s stance: arms crossed, more weight on the left leg than the right, and a scowl. “How does your hair even _do_ that?” Lena didn’t reply; instead, she stared up at Amélie with large brown eyes. Amélie saw that she was clearly _irritated,_ and then...

The irritation disappeared, and Lena Oxton _giggled._ On her end, all tension disappeared, but on Amélie’s side, the singer could only quirk an eyebrow. Not only was the cashier defunct when it came to fashion, she clearly couldn’t take a hint. Or she simply didn’t _want_ to. Somehow, that thought only served to annoy Amélie even more. She watched as Lena raised her hands, backing away, a crooked smile on her face.

“Well, don’t mind me, love. You do your shopping, but just one thing?” Lena paused, her grin transforming into what was surely _the_ definition of a smug smirk. “Don’t ever talk to me or my ninety-seven pairs of crocs again,” She added, winking at Amélie, before turning and walking back to the checkout counter. Amélie gaped. _Ninety-seven pairs of crocs?_ She didn’t even have the words to _respond_ to such an outrageous statement. And what the hell was that wink? Amélie bit her lip, turning on her heel, and resumed hunting for a speaker. But as she tapped her chin, cradling her elbow in her hand, Amélie realized something.

 _I have no idea what the hell I’m looking at._ She had a vague idea of what she wanted, but aside from that, whatever the speakers boasted mattered little. As long as it was durable, it had enough wireless range that she could change the song from anywhere in her house, and it could be reasonably loud, she really didn’t care. Amélie wasn’t an audiophile by any means. _I shouldn’t have smart-mouthed that cashier._ Her hand went from her chin to the bridge of her nose, and she pinched it, sighing. _What the hell._ Today just _had_ to be the day that a new cashier was working. Focusing her attention on a rectangular speaker, Amélie was able to glean a few things. It offered thirty feet of wireless range, it came with its own cable, and had a battery life that lasted 8 hours. It even remembered her device. _Well, damn._ The device was smarter than some people she knew. A slight sigh slipped through her lips as she noticed a sign in the middle of the wall. When she read it, Amélie gnashed her teeth together, twisting to look at Lena, who was staring at her with the most shit-eating grin she’d ever seen on a person.

_Please see an assistant for help getting your product! Thanks!_

 

* * *

 

Amélie was, for lack of a better word, _utterly annoyed._ Today had been a shitty day. Admittedly. She had woken up early-- the usual-- but the news was depressing, her lecture from Reinhardt had made her sad, and her expenditure to the music shop resulted in a massive headache. _Lena Oxton_ had to be one of the most insufferable adults she’d had the pleasure to experience. Whether it was her crooked grin, her stupid accent, her ridiculous hair, or the fact that she was just an _annoying fuckface,_ Amélie could barely stand her. It was probably after the shit-eating grin she had gotten from Lena that she became hyper aware that she _hated_ that smile. The fashion disaster just _couldn’t_ take a hint. Purchasing the speaker had been an adventure in itself, a little sub-quest in a shitty RPG game, but Lena had been _just amicable_ enough to help her. Oddly quiet, too. Amélie was well aware that if she had the chance, she’d knock out the gremlin without a second though.

_Stupid, idiotic, living traffic cone. God._

Really, all she wanted to do was go home, fiddle with her new speaker, and play _Kingdom Hearts 2_ to relax. The game was a crutch, really. Sora had an infectious face, and while she had hated him at first, she quickly grew to love him. He was a ray of sunshine. That had clearly seen some shit.

Instead, at 3:30PM, she had gotten a call from Reinhardt that was more like a summon. Like she was some expendable in a video game, summoned when the main protagonist was handed their ass on a silver platter. She was the _deus ex machina,_ really. Except she wasn’t, and her specialty was scathing sarcasm and wittiness. Truly, the best combination.

So Amélie had responded politely-- as polite as she could be-- and then hung up. That was an hour ago, and now she was sitting at the bar in _The Watch,_ examining her fingernails. Reinhardt had told her he had ‘good news’ and that she should ‘dress to impress.’ It had taken every ounce of her self control to _not_ show up in sweatpants, a work-out tank top, and her hair piled in a bun on top of her head. Instead, she tried, because Reinhardt was her grandpa, and she didn’t want to be a disappointment. Again. Here she was, wearing a tight, form fitting black dress with an open back, connected by thin strips of fabric. She had been sorely tempted to wear flats, but that would’ve thrown off the whole look. Amélie bit the bullet, and wore black stilettos instead. Sure, the songstress was already tall, standing at a respectable 5’9”, but why not add heels? Now she stood at an impressive 6’2”. Something about seeing men squirm with discomfort when they had to look _up_ at her was the most satisfying thing. _Doesn’t feel so good, does it?_

Amélie wore her hair curled, and opted to have it pulled over her left shoulder. It was a classy look, truly. But she hated it in this particular instance. All she wanted to do was be on her couch back home, huddled under a blanket, playing her video games to try and disconnect from the shitty events of the day.

“Amélie! I am glad you made it! You look wonderful as always!” The booming voice jolted her out of her edgy thoughts. Amélie looked over her shoulder, spotting the great hulk of the man that was her surrogate grandfather, then spun around on the chair to face him. “I have great news!” He was dressed in black slacks, a white button up shirt, and a black vest. Her grandpa may have been an old truck, but he was fashionable. _It’s one of his saving graces,_ Amélie thought, nodding at him.

“ _Salut,_ Reinhardt. What trouble am I in now?” Amélie asked dryly, casting a quick glance around the restaurant. The venue was always busy, for better or worse. _McCree must be in the back, cooking or something._ It was rare to find the barista missing from his spot behind the bar. Amélie was convinced he lived there, but mostly because it was infinitely better than knowing where he actually lived. She’d been there once. The man had four pairs of cowboy boots. _Four._ That was _almost_ as bad as Lena’s bright orange crocs. But, the songstress decided, nothing was worse than bright orange crocs.

“No trouble, little spider!” Reinhardt laughed, clapping a hand on her shoulder. Amélie was thankful she was sitting down, or else that clap probably would’ve shattered her kneecaps. Even then, she suspected the stool she was sitting on had cracked a little bit. _Mon Dieu. How did you end up in the hospital? Well, you see, my grandfather shattered my kneecaps._ “I found you a new pianist! I hope you will like her; she’s _extremely_ talented! And very fun to be around!” He added, a knowing grin on his face. Amélie sighed. _A woman, huh? Well. I hope she’s cute._ She also hoped the new pianist wasn’t an annoying twat like the last pianist. And had the decency to keep her mouth shut.

“That didn’t take long, grandpa,” Amélie examined her fingernails again. It _almost_ sounded too good to be true. She had just scared the last pianist away two days ago. Reinhardt shook his head, then turned around and motioned to someone.

“Come out now, little bird!” _That old man and his ‘little’ nicknames._ He even had a nickname for Zarya. Amélie sighed, crossing her arms and standing up. She watched as a tiny figure came out into view, and her heart _dropped._ It really _was_ in fact, the _shittiest_ day of her life. She saw the familiar spiky brown hair, the freckles, the brown eyes, that _stupid grin,_ and saw that her new pianist  was in a rather nice black tuxedo-- _where did this inbred pug get that from--_ and, when Amélie looked down at the pianist’s feet, black crocs.

“Heya, love!”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! If you read this big hulk of a chapter, thanks a lot! I hope you all enjoyed it! This is my first fic that I've published, and it just happened to be an AU that I've been sitting on for like a month. I finally decided to write it, and here we are. I hope to update it at least fairly regularly, but I go back to university in a week, so I will be getting quite busy. Still, I'll do my best. More characters will show up in the next chapter, I promise.
> 
> Hit me up on kweizar.tumblr.com if you have questions or something! o/


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